“Come, Senna.” He gestured with his hand, stepping to the side to give her room to land beside him on his boulder. He grabbed her hand as she landed, pulling her up beside him.
The rising moon lit up the currents of the river below like small, steely gray snakes. On either side of the water lay low, flat land. To the west stretched the perils of the king’s highway, but beyond that, the safety of hills Finian had known since his youth. To the east flowed English lands. North, lay Rardove. And four feet away hunkered the biggest boulder on Bhean’s River, renowned for its sentinel-like granite edifice.
He could tell Senna’s face had paled, even through the moonlight. “Do ye think ye can jump it?”
“Of course.”
“Senna.”
She started to protest, then shook her head slowly. Silver, moon-cast glints gleamed in her eyes. “I don’t know, Finian. ’Tis a long way. I ca
nnot say for certes.”
He nodded. “Then I’m going to throw ye.”
Her mouth fell open. “What?”
“What’s yer other plan?” he asked sharply.
“I—” She shook her head. “I haven’t one.”
He didn’t even pause. He swept a boot behind her, shifting to stand sidewise, facing her. Her lithe body trembled. Small, fast pants shot out of her mouth. Finian spread his legs wide, crouched down, grabbed under her arm, and slid his other hand between her legs, lifting to her crotch.
“Don’t try to help,” he ordered. “Do not push off. Don’t move. All ye have to do is land on yer feet. Aye?”
The contours of her profile were frozen. “Aye.”
“Ready, girl?”
“Jésu, Finian,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”
He focused all his attention and, tensing his already wearied legs and arms and shoulders, and tightening every muscle along the length of his burning back, he flung her across the churning water straight at the boulder.
Chapter 13
Senna couldn’t help it; she pushed off, too.
That may have been what threw her slightly off course, offset the trajectory of Finian’s mighty toss. Whatever it was, she landed with a sickening thud chest-first, almost to the flat, top surface of the boulder, but not quite. Instead, she clung to its slanting side, like a fly on a wall.
Her cheek was planted into the rock. She clung to the hard, impermeable surface of the stone, her good fingers clutching desperately for any small crags. She found them aplenty, all jagged, knife-sharp things. Her benumbed, wounded fingers weren’t necessary for gripping, but their incapacity seemed to sap the strength from the others.
But her blood, that was hot and ferocious. It pounded through her body. Everything coming out of her—breath, effort, curse—was hot, panting fury as she lifted her legs and arms, scrabbling up the side of the stone face.
She gained the summit and flung herself over the lip, sprawled out like a dead thing. Her arms and legs were on fire, her knees bruised and torn, arm muscles screaming, her lungs burning. She lay for a moment, feeling the cool face of the stone under her feverish cheek. Then she pushed up to her elbows and peeked over her shoulder.
Finian was crouched, fingertips on the stone between his knees, his body rocked forward, staring at her, his mouth moving silently.
“Bonny toss,” she called softly, lifting her voice just above the rush of river currents.
His head dropped and for a moment, she couldn’t see his face. One broad hand lifted to wipe across the features she could not see, then he pushed to his feet, shaking his head.
“If ye hadn’t pushed off when I told ye not to—”
“Oh, indeed. ’Tis my fault.”
They stared at each other. A corner of Finian’s mouth lifted into a grin. “Get off the damned rock, Senna.”
She stepped to the side.